


A Love Thing

by prettyboyporter



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas, Comfort Sex, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter
Summary: Even five months after recovering from his injuries, Billy still has residual effects from the mindflayer.It's Christmas. Steve wants tohelp
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 72
Kudos: 424





	A Love Thing

It was a comfort thing. 

That’s all this arrangement was. Comfort. At least, that’s what Steve told himself. 

He tried placing the emphasis on other syllables -- it’s A COMfort thing it’s a comFORT THING -- tried saying it while affecting a British accent, then with a French one while pacing down the street, breath forming a wispy cloud in front of him in the winter air. The recitation of the phrase did nothing, though, to materialize the wispy words into something more tangible -- to help ameliorate this feeling like a screwdriver just twisted up his in his chest. Hardly the feeling he was chasing for a Christmas Eve morning.

_It’s a comfort thing_. 

Two weeks ago, Billy stayed over at Steve’s place. Even after five months of recovery from his injuries, Billy still had residual problems with communication, anxiety, and nightmares. The mindflayer left Billy shaken and scarred -- the ghost of its presence in his brain sometimes filled and overflowed with terror like an empty trench after a flood. It spilled over and left Billy shaking. He’d start off fine, going to work at the comic book store next door to Family Video. He’d show up on his breaks or after work and talk to Steve, all blue waters, quiet, serene. That smile, his scruff, his dirty blonde curls when he leaned over that one time tickled Steve’s cheek. Steve stepped too close and dropped his video, clattered to the ground and Steve had to pick it up at Billy’s boots, bend down and stand next to the hem of Billy’s jeans, stand up and up, over legs and torso up to Billy’s blue eyes again, and Steve felt his face heat, cheeks pink. 

Billy came over that night, and Steve made them hot cocoa and a big bowl of buttered popcorn. When the credits rolled on _National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation_, they talked, soft and gentle like the slow fall of the snowflakes outside -- and the conversation slowed. Static hopped across the TV screen, white noise filling the room as Billy grew silent. 

He stood as if to make an announcement, but then eyes dropped down to his hands and he said _it was my fault_. 

Billy covered his face with his hands, tears still dripping from under his palms, and his back shook with the force of his weeping. Soul-wracking sobs shook his shoulders. 

“No, nononono,” Steve said over and over, stood and grabbed Billy’s shoulders and hauled Billy against his neck, let Billy cry into the shoulder of his sweater. Billy wept harder then, fisting the back of Steve’s shirt. 

“It was _my fault_,” Billy said, voice tight with grief and choked with tears, and sank to his knees. 

Steve went down with him, on their knees, Billy’s face still pressed to Steve’s neck, now wet with Billy’s tears and hot with Billy’s breath. 

“Stop saying that, don’t say that Billy, jesus christ it was not your fault, you’re the only reason we’re still even here, fucking -- this whole town owes you a debt of gratitude. I mean. You’re like the bravest person I fucking know. You battled a monster in your _mind_. Literally. Then physically. Not one bit of this is on you, man.” 

Billy’s choked sobs began to slow. 

Steve wasn’t thinking about what he was saying, just spoke the thoughts as they popped in his brain and wasn’t even sure if he made sense, but he knew he had to fill this void -- to help replace the empty trenches with praise and admiration. He held Billy tight, pulled him closer, could feel his own words vibrating in Billy’s chest. Billy was so, so warm. “None of us knew what the fuck we were doing. We were all just hoping to do _something_ to take that fucking thing down. And El had her hand on your cheek and that was that y’know? You saved us all like some tank. Like Mr. Fuckin T. You stood up and took it on with your bare hands and honestly like. You’re a hero. You’re so _good_ Billy. You’re so _good_. I wish people could see that. Like I wish everyone knew what I know.” Steve rubbed Billy’s back, stroked his hand up to the back of Billy’s neck. Caressed him, slowly. More like a lover than a friend. 

Billy clung to Steve, quieter now, and he shifted a bit on his knees, and that’s when Steve felt the hard line of Billy’s erection straining against his pajama bottoms. 

Billy started to pull back but Steve held him tight. Something insane happened in Steve’s brain and his hand reached down, palm flat against Billy’s stomach and slid down, fingertips touching the waistband of Billy’s pajama bottoms. “Can I, uhm. Do this for you?” 

Billy was still and quiet.

“I want to help you? Just. Let me help you.” Steve’s fingers dipped just under the waistband and Billy’s breath hitched. 

Billy pressed his forehead to Steve’s shoulder and said it so breathily that Steve could barely hear it. “Yeah,” he said, looking down at Steve’s hand. “Yeah.” 

Steve had never done this to a dick other than his own but he knew well enough how to make this work, so he lifted his hand to his mouth, gave it a couple of wet licks, and returned it down to Billy’s pajama bottoms -- shoved the front of them down with the back of his hand enough to let Billy’s dick spring free. 

He didn’t look down, even though every part of his body wanted to look -- wanted to see what Billy’s dick would look like sliding in his hand. He felt like -- like this was a service of some kind, like applying iodine to a wound or something and that he shouldn’t be turned on by this. He took the base of it in his hand and started to stroke from base to tip, the feel of it so different than his own -- wider and shorter. “Come on Billy,” Steve said, quickening his movements, sliding his hand over the head, thumb over the slit, before stroking the tip. “You’re so good. You deserve to feel good.” 

Billy’s fingers dug into Steve’s back and his breathing grew ragged. “Steve, I’m gonna,” Billy panted, but Steve didn’t let up, held on as Billy came over his fingers, spilling down Steve’s pant leg, onto the floor. 

Steve held Billy as Billy’s breathing steadied and he released Steve’s shirt, pulling away and heading for the bathroom while Steve cleaned up come from his pajama bottoms and the tiles. He ignored his own hard-on because, well. This was a favor, and his own erection was simply a natural reaction to someone having an orgasm in his arms. 

_It’s a comfort thing_, Steve said to himself for the first time that same night as he pulled his comforter back and let Billy in his bed -- as he wrapped around Billy’s back and pulled him close when he whimpered in the night. 

They didn’t talk about it when they saw each other again. 

Four days later, they were high on Steve’s bed, the world fading into cotton as the night rolled on and _Last Christmas_ poured from Steve’s stereo. They reclined against the headboard fixated on the Christmas lights on Steve’s dresser, when Billy’s head fell to Steve’s shoulder. “Fucking nightmares,” Billy said. The backs of his fingers brushed the outer seam of Steve’s jeans. “I can’t sleep. And then when I do sleep it’s always in some fucked up position. My back’s on fire and I’m just wiped out man.” Billy looked down at his fingers and flipped his hand -- his palm warm on Steve’s thigh. “Exhausted and in pain. Title of my fuckin book.” 

It felt like it took about 800 years, but Steve said, “let me just, mm, here, scoot up so I can get behind you.” He maneuvered himself behind Billy, got Billy between his legs. He put his hands on Billy’s shoulders and started rubbing. “God you’re so _tense_.” 

“‘S the nightmares,” Billy said again. He looked back over his shoulder toward Steve and in profile, Billy was fucking _beautiful_. Steve felt like he was just punched in the gut -- Billy’s long eyelashes, his cute nose, a jaw that Steve wanted to - 

Steve cut himself off and refocused on Billy’s back. He reminded himself that this was not about his wants -- it was about comfort. A comfort thing. “Wanna talk about it?” 

Billy inhaled sharply as Steve worked loose a knot in Billy’s back. “Not now. Maybe next time. I just,” his hands wrapped around Steve’s thighs. His voice was soft. “I just wanna feel your hands on me.”

Steve placed his hands flat on Billy’s back and slid them down and back up, firmly, repeating the motion, and stopped at the spot just above Billy’s ass. He pressed firmly with this thumbs, small circular movements. 

“Fuck,” Billy breathed. “Feels good.” 

Steve slipped his fingers up under Billy’s shirt. “This okay?” 

“I’m putty in your hands, pretty boy,” Billy said, and rubbed his hands over Steve’s thighs.

When Steve pressed his thumbs into the tissue of Billy’s lower back again, Billy _moaned_. “Good. That’s _good_. Make noise for me, Billy. Lemme know how it feels.” 

“Feels fucking good,” Billy said quietly. 

“Keep talking.” Steve remembered two months where Billy didn’t talk _at all_ after Starcourt, so hearing his voice always felt like a win. He dug his thumbs in, applied pressure a few inches up Billy’s back and back down, massaging that spot above Billy’s ass, and then Billy’s head fell back against Steve’ shoulder. His eyelids fell closed. 

“Been thinking about your hands for _days_. You got me all revved up,” Billy said. 

Steve slid his hands around to the front of Billy’s abdomen, flat, with fingers splayed open, just rubbing, stroking up Billy’s chest and back down again like he was a cat, and Billy stretched for Steve, too, long and sated under Steve’s touch. Billy’s sweatshirt rode up and big patch of belly was exposed. Petal-shaped scars with pink, lumpy skin lined Billy’s sides and abdomen. 

Steve touched the button of Billy’s jeans as the reached down to cup the bulge of Billy’s erection with his other hand. “Want me to take care of you again?” 

“Please,” Billy said. He scooted back and his back was flush to Steve’s chest. Steve made quick work of Billy’s zipper. Billy lifted his hips while Steve tugged down on Billy’s stubborn jeans and briefs -- they didn’t want to seem to fucking budge and this was _all_ Steve wanted in this moment, breathing hard in anticipation of this view -- looking down over Billy’s shoulder, sweatshirt rucked up, Billy gripping Steve’s thighs as if holding on for life. 

Nothing prepared Steve for how beautiful it was, though, when Billy’s dick popped out of his underwear and bobbed up, hard and pink, jutting out from a nest of dark blond curls. Steve leaned over to his nightstand awkwardly and tugged open the drawer to grab the lube, popped the cap, and poured it in the palm of his hand. 

This time he stroked but couldn’t help but reach down and cup Billy’s balls, caress them tenderly, give them a little tug as he stroked Billy’s cock until Billy was digging his heels into the comforter. “You look so good like this. Look so hot when you’re wrecked.”

“Steve,” Billy panted and traced his fingertips of Steve’s right forearm. 

“_Sweetheart_,” Steve said and started panicking because _fuck he slipped up_. This was about comfort, about satisfying Billy’s needs, and dropping endearments was not a part of the rules of this thing that Steve had formed in his head, but then Billy whined, high and needy at the word. 

Steve worked quickly, applying pressure to the head of Billy’s dick _just like so_ and then Billy came and Steve talked him through it -- _good job Billy, look at that, so good for me, wanna make you feel good_ \-- as Billy spilled over his own belly and Steve’s fingers. 

A few beats passed as Billy caught his breath. Steve pressed his forehead against Billy’s temple. “That help your back?” 

Billy huffed a laugh and lifted his limbs lazily. “Didn’t do shit for my back. But.” He took a breath and reached over for a tissue on the nightstand. “You keep giving me weed and massages and handjobs, I’ll be sleeping like a baby in no time.” 

Steve laughed at that and shifted out from behind Billy. “As long as it helps.”

Billy threw his legs over the edge of the bed. “More than you know.” 

When Billy stood to leave, though, Steve didn’t know how to stop him -- thought that if he said _stay with me_, it might be selfish. He wanted and yearned but then felt guilty about it -- pushed it down and locked it up. He watched the Camaro drive off that night, tail lights disappearing in the black of night. Later, when he went to bed, he found a blond hair on his shirt and plucked it carefully before laying it on his nightstand. 

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, he had a talk with himself. The more he talked, the more he paced, the more he tried to convince himself that this was about Billy. _Only_ about Billy. Billy needed, well. He needed a lot after being released from the hospital, still went to the doctor three times a week after his shifts at the comic book store, and Steve’d been there for Billy from the moment he found out that Billy was recovering under Doctor Owens’s care. Steve would always be there for Billy -- of that he had no doubt. 

He stepped on some snow that was iced over a bit on top and found the resulting crunch underfoot satisfying. He stepped on the snow a few more times as he thought how fucking complicated this had all gotten -- too many feelings all tied up and confused, a Rubik’s Cube he’d never be able to solve without peeling the stickers.

It was a comfort thing. 

He steeled himself in the winter air and took a deep breath of freezing air that only mildly hurt in his lungs. “Stop it, Harrington. Put _him_ first. Give him what he needs. Don’t be a selfish dick.” 

But then Billy showed up at Family Video that night just as Steve was about to lock up, after he’d taken care of the rush of people trying to get their last-minute holiday films before Christmas Day. 

Billy stood in front of the door and smiled and waved, and Steve let him in. “Buckley still here?” 

“Nah. I told her she could take off an hour ago and I’d close up for her. She has this date tonight so.” 

“You handled that horde of families by yourself? Good of you, Harrington.” 

Steve just smiled and looked down at Billy’s boots. “Yeah. Well.” 

“Hey.” Billy said. “I wanted to tell you something. I had this whole fuckin thing written down like goddamn Doc Owens told me I should but. Well. Fuck it.” He crumpled up a paper ball in his pocket and took a deep breath. “I like being around you. You make me feel -- normal. Even when I feel as far from fucking normal as I could get, you make me feel like a human being. And after being host to a non-human, that’s -- it’s a lot, Steve. It’s not like I’ve ever had one fucking person who lined up to take care of me but here you are and I don’t know why and I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve you. But. Here you are. And.” Billy took Steve’s hand and placed it on top of his chest -- right over his heart. “Look up.” Above their heads, Billy was holding a sprig of mistletoe. “Merry Christmas Steve.” 

Steve felt like he was about to melt into the ground and he leaned forward, cupped Billy’s face, and watched his eyelids flutter closed before he took the kiss that he’d been wanting for months. Billy’s lips were warm and welcoming, and he kissed more softly than Steve could ever have imagined.

When Billy walked Steve back to the checkout counter and pressed him against it, taking Steve’s face between his hands and deepening the kiss, their tongues touching, that’s when Steve realized, finally, that this wasn’t a comfort thing. Not at all. 

It was a love thing.

**Author's Note:**

> prettyboyporter on tumblr


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